


Paralyzed

by howsyasister



Series: Shuffle [5]
Category: Professional Wrestling
Genre: Exorbitant amounts of alcohol, Humor, M/M, Trust us on the humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2014-12-03
Packaged: 2018-02-28 01:04:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2713250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howsyasister/pseuds/howsyasister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>FCW's last episode has just been taped, and the roster decides to hit the town and celebrate. Seth Rollins and Dean Ambrose are having a hard time having quite as much fun as their coworkers though, distracted by what lies ahead for each of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paralyzed

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This was way too fun to write. Song that inspired it is "Paralyzed" by Mystery Skulls. Cowritten with the lovely howsyasister.

_8 pm.  
_ Seth Rollins is a hair past tipsy. Just a hair. Honest. He doesn't know what fruity bullshit drink Summer Rae shoved at his hand as soon as he first stepped into this shitty college bar/club/hole in the wall, but it's the last night of FCW and this is radioactive blue and it's got liqueur in it that he can't even pronounce and it reminds him of some t-shirt he bought at Warped Tour and it's kind of disgusting and fuck, is it strong.

So maybe he asks Summer what the name of it is.

"Blue Motherfucker." She says it straight, no inflection to her voice. The queen of disinterest, Summer would much rather be dancing to whatever electropop is playing in the background that is honestly kind of infectious, if Seth's moderate rhythmic swaying could answer for him, but there's somebody without a drink in hand and in her books tonight, that's just about a crime.

It tastes like battery acid, until his tongue goes numb. Then it tastes like blue and citrus. And blue.

"No, I know what color it is, but like… what is it called?"

"...Blue Motherfucker." An emotion finds her voice - pure disdain. It's expected, though, and Seth is frankly pleasantly surprised that he wasn't actually being called a motherfucker. Even if that's  _not_  what these drinks were called when she ordered them, that's what they are now, and that's what Seth will ask the bartender for.

Dean Ambrose, on the other hand, is freshly-woken bear levels of cranky, slouching at the bar. His head hurts, and he just wants to go back to his hotel and decompress and not be in this loud as fuck bar full of underage kids going to school on daddy's dime. He's only there because, to hell with it, it's a  _bar_ , and one of the few things Dean can call a friend is Booze.

This is the end of a lot of things: the end of FCW, the end (at least for now) of a few of his favorite rivalries, the end of him being relegated to developmental territory - he's finally slated to go up to the main roster soon, guaranteed. Pretty much. He's finally,  _finally_  got the message across to Regal. At least  _he_  thinks so. Hopes so. So now, at the end of things, they gotta go out with a bang, and all. It's just what you do.

 _8:15 pm.  
_ Seth has finally polished off his tall glass of battery acid, and is taking a beat to glance around at who all has come out. His eyes fall on Ambrose, who's grouching up a royal storm at the bar, despite the rest of their coworkers trying to dance and drink and have an enjoyable time. What an ass. He rolls his eyes and eyeballs the shelves of liquor from a distance that says he isn't ready to order when a strong hand claps his shoulder.

"What's with the scowl, man? Lighten up." Oh no, not Leakee. Seth feels his knees go weak and he manages a pitiful smile.

"I'm good, uh-"

"Clearly not good enough, little brother. You need a shot in you."

Seth's stomach does weird flops when the most beautiful man he knows calls him little brother. He is surprised, though not displeased, when Leakee buys them a pair of Jolly Rancher shots. He kind of needs it to drown out the battery acid taste still burning at his molars.

The one good thing about being out with this FCW crew?  _Free alcohol_. Dean is a Cheap Motherfucker, and when he gets a congratulatory clap on the back from Damien Sandow, of all people, "hey man, main roster soon, right? Good on you, you deserve it," he is confused until Sandow offers to buy him a drink.  _F r e e._

"Whiskey."

"Done!"

Dean's fiddling around with his phone, flipping it open and shut uselessly, and when a glass is placed in front of him, it is not whiskey.

"What in the good fuck is this?"

"Whiskey lemonade!" Sandow shouts over the din, like it's what Dean asked for or some shit.

Fuck's sake.

But Sandow is smiling at him, and it's still an act of good faith and camaraderie and goddamnit, it's free alcohol, so he pounds it back because it at least has whiskey  _in_  it.

Sandow claps him on the back again and disappears into the crowd, giving Dean all of about four minutes to himself, if his phone's tiny display window can be trusted. He looks up to see his favorite (least favorite?) former champ chatting up a storm with Leakee, and it has him grinding his teeth just a little. Then, he's interrupted by Antonio Cesaro, who offers more booze. Perfect. Cesaro, a learned and international gentleman, can surely understand Dean's want of a good whiskey. He flashes his best winning grin and accepts.

His charm is rewarded, kind of, with a whiskey sour.

Close, but no cigar. Not even a bit of dip, if he's honest.

 _Somewhere between 9 -10pm.  
_ Dean is absolutely not watching Seth dance when Summer Rae approaches him with some sickeningly bright blue concoction, and honestly, he has no goddamn clue what's in this thing, but she sits down, hands him the drink, and tells him, "you drink it like a mind eraser." It sounds like a horrible idea. He's in. And who is he to deny an attractive lady feeding him alcohol?

Holy fuck, this is battery acid.

It's working. He can at least taste the whiskey in it. He thinks.

He has lost all concept of hours and minutes, just the bottoms of glasses and it is impolite to turn down free drinks from friends, right? Are they friends? He needs to consult the shot of Patrón that Alicia Fox just nearly shoved into his hand.

Tequila says "friends."

Alright then.

 _?:? pm  
_ Dean's shoulder is warm and he sees a mitt of a hand there and then when he looks up, blue eyes all glassy, there's Leakee, grinning, and goddamn does he feel fucking ugly next to this guy.

"Shots?"

Okay.

And he's not sure if it's his brain yelling at him, or if the bar really is chanting "shots" - neither, it's just the song playing - but he's staring down Samoan wrestling royalty in a bizarre trial of who has the stronger stomach lining. What makes it worse is that it's not all the same liquor, because that's too easy. Dean had to up the ante, because he is perpetually trying to prove himself, which also means that he occasionally allows his mouth to write checks that his body cannot cash. He's staring at the glasses, trying to figure out a game plan. He could do the sour apple vodka back to back with the Goldschlager… But the hell could he do with this other mess of shots? He was just glad that he insisted, finally, with a stubbornness seen usually only out of pit bull puppies, that one of these fucking shots be whiskey. Pure whiskey. Jack fuckin' Daniels. No substitutions. Ideal for getting chicken-legged golden boys off his mind.

By whatever time it is now, Seth is absolutely  _obliterated_ , but he doesn't feel terrible like when he usually gets drunk - which is next to never - but rather he feels sort of free and relaxed and probably far more ballsy than he has any right to be. As he sips noisily at number who-the-fuck-knows of his Blue Motherfucker, tongue numb to the cacophony of alcohol in his mouth, he looks over towards where Dean is sitting. Well,  _was_  sitting. He is now running a line of shots with Leakee and for some reason, Seth wants to punch him in the face. Not because he's mad at him for existing, but, ok, maybe it's because he's mad at him for existing,  _but also looking really fucking good tonight_.

Realistically, he had no reason for thinking like this. Seth has a family. He has friends and loved ones and a rewarding career, and yet there Dean Ambrose is, looking too good hunched over a bar with a tiny stream of missed sugar-mixed liquor from the corner of his mouth because he needs to slam six shots - half because Leakee bought them and he needs to prove himself in front of this Samoan monster of a man, and half because it's six shots of alcohol and it's the  _principle of the thing._

Shots safely downed, Dean allows himself a quick glance around the bar to spot Seth again. His palms itch and he wants to soothe them on Seth's beard. He wants to curl his fingers in the belt loops on Seth's dumb low, tight jeans and pull him close until the stitching pops. He wants to steal Seth's stupid hat- he's going to steal Seth's stupid hat- and run his tongue behind the gap in Seth's teeth. He wants to finally fucking make sure that Seth NOTICES him, that Seth SEES him and what he wants and what he's wanted this entire stupid fucking time, now that Seth is going to be in FCW's reboot/merger/thing and Dean's going to be in dark match limbo for a few months with no real exposure or back up plan in the mean time, prancing all over the fucking country while Seth continues to rule this roost that doesn't deserve him and his talent and his rasping voice and prettily curling hair.

Wow, he needs another drink, stat.

"God, I just wanna fucking destroy him," Dean grumbles to Leakee, who is currently winning the friend competition since he's bought Dean the most alcohol tonight, as Dean tries hailing the bartender for another cup of blue battery acid. Leakee looks a bit confused, but accepts it. He IS a good friend. Alcohol was right.

Seth has had it up to, well, somewhere, with how good Dean is looking. His limbs are all loose, and this music is really loud, the bass is rattling his bones in a good way, and it's late, and he's going to regret skipping the gym tomorrow, so it's tough to say just how far up he's had it when he can't lift his arms that high. But he's sort of hypnotized at the lights and how they flash off of Dean's hair and how Dean looks lost in a crowded room like he always does and frankly, he's committed.

He's just standing in place, nodding his head to the music until he finally gets the cognitive ability to move his legs, and yeah, ok, he's doing this. He's not sure when he's going to see Dean again, if ever, and he could always blame this on the Blue Motherfucker.

Which sounds oddly prejudiced in his brain, but then he reminds himself it's a drink and his bias towards its color doesn't make him a bad guy.

Dean is nearly spun off of his seat at the bar, eyes half-lidded in contented inebriation, tastebuds blurred into oblivion and varying types of alcohol, but then Seth Rollins is in his face, looking disheveled and irritated and really fucking pretty. Like always, but more.

"Fuck it."

Wait what?

"Wait, what?"

Seth grabs Dean by the front of his crappy white t-shirt, and instead of a nervous peck on the lips, it is bruising and heavy with blue and citrus, and teeth. It hurts, to be honest, but it's real, and Dean's world spins so fast, he thinks he's risking yakking up those last six shots (eight? was it six or eight?). Seth's teeth pull at Dean's bottom lip, and he's just as much a showrunner out of the ring as he is in it, because Dean falls right into his trap, gasping and making room for a downright cutthroat invasion by Seth's tongue.

His hands frame the good little golden boy's hips, fingers sliding through belt loops like that's what they're made for. Almost lazy in response to Seth's aggression, Dean's tongue traces the underside of his rival's and twists against it as he gleefully forgets where he is. Seth pulls back and Dean chases, at last stealing a chance to taste the backs of Seth's teeth, surprised in his drunken half-stupor that he tastes like shitty rail liquor and sour mix, as opposed to candy or venomous words or some other poetic bullshit.

Faintly, in the distance, Bo Rotundo laughs nervously. "Hey… you guys, uh…" Seth startles, apparently running out of boldness as he whips his head to catch how many people are staring at him now.

Everyone's reactions are slightly different. Summer Rae is still Queen Disinterest, but she does sort of smirk to herself at the magical matchmaking powers of Blue Motherfucker.

Leakee is slightly shocked, but not in a bad way. He had presumed that Dean's strange flame was for Regal, and not for Seth, but thinking back on it, nah that makes sense.

"God  _damnit_ , Bo! Literally no one asked for your opinion!" Everyone in the bar is about as surprised as Bo when he gets slugged in the arm by an openly distressed Johnny Curtis.

Johnny Curtis, apparently, is having a royal fucking meltdown. Hands clapped to his cheeks, they slip upwards to grip at his own hair, while Husky Harris shoots him a more than incidentally nervous side-eye.

"I just thought they might want to-"

"No, Bo! No. You ruined it. You fucking ruined it!"

"But, that's kind of something… to do… in  _private…_ "

"Shut the fuck  _up_ , Bo, oh my  _GOD_."

Dean just rolls his eyes, glad that he doesn't need to do anything to Bo, but also damn confused at Johnny's overwhelming enthusiasm for the unexpected-yet-welcome makeout session.

"Cover his eyes, Johnny," he calls before reeling Seth back in by the belt loops, pulling him into the kind of kiss that people who are never going to see each other again don't really do.

 


End file.
